Not the best of Fridays

With cold winds and a weak


Whose strength has been

Blown away somewhere South.

She’s in no good mood

Disliking her sneeze

Battling with a fever

That eats her up.

The poet feels like a gentle


Doused with a bucket

Of icy water.

Yet he brings good humour

To a scene of her Armageddon

That recurs more often

During the birth of spring.

Yet the poet will still let

His flow of words bubble

From his soul

Like an awakening spring

And flood his notebook

And cool his physical wounds.

Most good things come in threes

But so do the bad ones too.




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